Light of my life
by frozen-delight
Summary: Tomorrow is another day. [Mostly schmoopy coda to 10x23 "Brother's Keeper". Sam/Dean.]


I'm convinced that others are much better at writing cathartic make-up sex against an apocalyptic backdrop than I am, so this story is sadly lacking in that. Basically, it's pointless schmoop with Sam as Scarlett O'Hara, just without the crinoline, and with added talk about deep-sea creatures. :)  
The title is a shout-out to stardust_made's _Eight Seasons of Wincest Drabbles_ and  canonisrelative's ficlet by the same name.

Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.

* * *

 **Light of my life**

Afterwards, all was quiet.

As suddenly as they shot up from the ground, the thick columns of black smoke vaporized, and the landscape they left behind looked no different. A tornado would have left a trace, Sam thought, glancing around uneasily as they dragged the Impala out of the ditch. Eerily enough, the world had survived the assault of the darkness unchanged, at least on the surface. Outside of the motel they checked into, a group of teenagers amused themselves with harmless drinking games; the girl at the reception gave Dean the appreciative once-over Sam never failed to resent; and in their room the usual gaudy wallpapers and uncomfortable beds greeted them. Even an internet signal was still available.

The scary thing about darkness, Sam thought, was that you couldn't see the monsters lurking in the shadows. But he'd learnt to deal with that somehow. What was infinitely more scary was the knowledge that the darkness was out there now and you couldn't see _it_.

Well, he'd simply have to learn how to deal with that, too.

Shaking off the chill of horror that had seized him, he tried to call Cas, but the angel wouldn't answer his phone. Then he collapsed onto the nearest bed.

Dean stepped next to him with a frown. "Shouldn't we be doing something about the _darkness_ darkness?"

Out of tired eyes, Sam squinted up at his brother. It wasn't the first time he'd gazed up at Dean that day, and it struck him once again how the angle was both odd and familiar, reminding him of the age when he'd still looked up to his big brother, physically and metaphorically. "We don't even know where to start," Sam objected. He allowed his tiredness to seep into his eyes and voice. "I'm beat, man, and I only just got you back…" He added an extra touch of pleading to his expression. "Tomorrow is another day."

As expected, Dean gave in and sat down beside him. "You gotta stop looking at me like that," he said, wearily shaking his head.

A clammy shiver ran over Sam's spine at the note of regret in Dean's words. Dean shouldn't sound like that. Not now, not when they were both still alive and Dean was finally free from the Mark. They could still worry enough about everything else tomorrow. "Dean," he said imploringly, clutching his brother's arm with one hand.

Dean ran a hand over his face and sighed. "Sammy, you gotta understand – the things you did, the things _I_ did, some of it I'm never gonna be okay with." He closed his hand over Sam's and gazed down at the clean patch of skin just above their fingers where the Mark had been. "I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to want to so bad." His tongue darted out to lick over his bottom lip while he gave a helpless, self-deprecating shrug. "The Mark's gone, but at what price?"

"Dean," Sam said again, squeezing his arm. "You and me, fighting the good fight together, that's all that matters."

"You realize that if we didn't keep screwing things up for everyone, maybe nobody would have to fight the good fight, right?"

"Dean, it's worth it. You've got to believe that."

Dean gave him a wan smile. "I can try."

He rose from the bed and crossed the room to the minibar. A minute later he returned, a cool beer can in his hand which he pressed to Sam's bruised cheek as he lay down on his side next to him so that they were facing each other.

Up close Dean looked even more worn, the cold, closed-off fury that had kept him upright the past few days giving way to the bone-deep weariness underneath.

Dean's free hand plucked listlessly at the sheets. "Everything bad that's gonna happen now…it's on me."

Unhappily, Sam bit his lip. "Dean, come on… you shouldn't blame yourself so hard."

A humorless laugh escaped Dean's throat. "I'm more worried about not blaming myself hard enough." He lifted the beer can and brushed his thumb over the bruise on Sam's cheek. "'Cuz in the end, no matter what I said…or did…I'm glad you're not dead. That it's still you and me, together." He looked at Sam. The naked, dejected longing in his eyes was difficult to bear. "The world is ending and I'm glad."

"Story of our lives," Sam joked, unrepentant, and earned himself a more genuine chuckle from Dean. It was the most uplifting sound he'd heard in weeks.

Then Dean blinked and fixed Sam with a new, somewhat more alert stare, as though he were only seeing him properly now; his focus shifting from the somber state of the world at large to this chintzy room, to this sagging bed, to Sam. Love and a tinge of resentment soaked through the expression of world-weary regret that had been firmly attached to his face so far.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, caressing Sam's bruised cheek, the beer can lying forgotten somewhere between the sheets. Sam felt the limitations of the apology on his skin as much as he heard them in everything Dean didn't say. It wasn't a _Sorry, of course I don't blame you_. Or a _Sorry for not believing in you_. But hearing it still made Sam feel lighter inside.

Light enough to quip, "I hope you're not feeling sorry that now you've lost your superpowers you won't be able to beat me in a fight."

"Dude, I'd still totally kick your ass," Dean immediately retorted, eyes crinkling; and the sight was so damn rare and welcome that Sam closed the distance between them and kissed him.

Dean's lips were chapped and his breath reeked of stale beer; but his mouth moved against Sam's with the comforting ease of familiarity and the tenderness of a lifetime.

When they broke apart, Sam traced a hand over Dean's unscarred forearm, content. The Mark was gone; Sam had saved him, had at least once managed to give back what Dean had done for him a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. Sure, Dean still looked jagged and faded around the edges, guilt and despair hiding in the smudges of shadow under his eyes, cynicism waiting in the corners of his mouth. And yet. Seeing him, feeling his skin underneath his palm alone filled Sam's chest with a warm glow.

"What are you thinking about?" Dean asked him, quiet, almost wary, as though he already expected Sam to have second thoughts about everything that had happened. It made Sam's heart ache for him.

"Bioluminescence," Sam replied.

The lines of worry on Dean's face smoothed out and he proceeded to gape at Sam, the exaggerated movement of his brows spelling out in capital letters what he thought of the topic. "Dude, _really_? That's such a turn-off."

"Shut up," Sam exclaimed and cuffed the side of Dean's head. More seriously he continued, seizing Dean's face in both hands even though Dean squirmed in protest, "You know how there's creatures at the bottom of the sea where it's really, really dark and the sunlight doesn't reach, and they produce their own light –"

"How could I forget?" Dean mocked with raised brows, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "You made me sit through that whole boring documentary."

"You didn't have to watch it with me, you could've – Anyway, that's not the point," Sam hastily interrupted himself before the conversation could escalate into an endless argument over Sam Winchester's Ridiculous And Antiquated TV Preferences. "The point is – it's dark out there, and scary. Now more than ever, I guess. But you, Dean, I meant what I said back there. You're not dark, you're good." He tightened his hands around Dean's face to keep him in place. "You are. You fight the darkness and light up this world, even when you can't see the light for yourself. And I'm not scared of the darkness out there, if only I'm with you…" Choked up with emotion he swallowed hard. "You're like those fish. You light up my whole world, Dean. You're the light of my life."

Dean's mouth twitched and for a moment Sam thought he would cry. But he caught himself and quipped back drily, "Real sweet, Sammy. Next time I'll be expecting a sonnet." Only his eyes glistened traitorously.

"Anyone ever tell you you're high-maintenance?" Sam laughed and swallowed up his brother's squawk of protest in a fresh kiss.

He lost himself in the warm, slick comfort of Dean's mouth, thinking distantly that the world might have to wait yet another day or maybe even two before they came to its rescue. He'd missed this, the closeness, the affection, the pleasant thrill; he'd missed _Dean_ ; and he didn't want it to end, not now, not ever. Eventually, though, breathing became an acute problem and he was forced to draw back a few inches.

"Anything you want," Dean whispered, his breath hitting Sam's face in soft little gasps.

The touch of his trembling fingers on Sam's nape, stroking his hair, combined with the heated want of his gaze sent a frisson of arousal through Sam's veins; instantly followed by a heightened awareness of the heaviness of his muscles and the pressure behind his eyes.

So he laughed, breathless and giddy. "You know, man, I wasn't lying earlier. I haven't slept properly in weeks and I'm completely exhausted. Right now I just want you to hold me."

"You're such a baby," Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes with great fondness, and complied.

Hours only after he'd raised them to smite him, Dean folded his arms around Sam in a tight embrace. This time Dean didn't tell him to close his eyes, but Sam tucked his head into the curve of his brother's neck and did so anyway.

* * *

I can't believe that this is the last one of my Season 10 drabbles. I had a lot of fun writing them, and hopefully you too in reading. Many, many thanks to everyone for your kind and encouraging comments, especially to the dear guest reviewers whom I couldn't thank in person.


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